


Homecoming

by Jennytheshipper



Series: The Life And Death Of Sugar Candy [16]
Category: The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:51:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theo and Edith explore the limits of understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a few hours after [_The Bachelor Dinner_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/916214). At this point, it's probably necessary to have read the 1919 fics, starting with [_A Difficult Train_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/861336), although there are references to the earlier (1902) fics too. 
> 
> Series notes [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/36980)

The motion and noise of a train always reminded Theo of Clive. Moans and rattles like sex in a small bed. Clive’s bed. He stared out at the dark land passing by; saw his face reflected in the window - a tired old man, looking back from the darkness. He was so tired. He wanted to sleep, but should not. They would stop soon at Alexanderplatz and he must change trains. The compartment would be full again. He thought back to those first steps onto the crowded train after saying good-bye to Clive. “Lieber” still on his lips, in his mind. Tears in his eyes. For an English General!  He had been surrounded at once, his fellow officers with their questioning looks; wondering how he could shake hands with the enemy, be whisked off to dinner with them. He had had to give them something. He had laid into Clive - called him childish, foolish. God, he’d barely thought what he was saying, but the more he had talked, the more he’d held them rapt. They were all bitter and tired and Theo could not hold back any longer. He let loose all the things he’d wanted to say at that damn bachelor dinner. And the men - he was used to acting a part for them, bragging of his chess exploits with the gullible Englishman - hung on his every word as if he were some kind of prophet.  

What if he’d simply boarded the train, ignoring their silent entreaties for explanation? They wouldn’t have questioned him, surely. There would have been mutterings, yes. They would have stared at first, but then forgotten. They all had their own worries about the future.  He felt foolish now, and guilty. Angry with himself. Something in him hated Clive’s childish good nature, hated it because he could not resist it. If Clive was a fool, he was worse.

The train rattled on, reminding him of that ridiculous horse drawn cab, their slow bumpy journey to Clive’s house. God, Clive’s _mouth,_ his moustache tickling. The fierceness of those kisses. Theo’s jaw ached at the memory. Clive’s hands; that tight grip on his arms, on his back. Theo desperate to get past Clive’s coat to his chest to nestle his face there, rest his goddamn head on Clive’s breast like a woman, to be held, to be owned by him. Had they stayed much longer in that cab, he would have let himself be undone by Clive. And the things they’d said. He mustn’t think of them now. The words, the memory would see him through whatever might come in the future. Now he had work to do. He mustn’t let Edith or the boys see him like this. He took out his cigarette case. Empty. Edith’s letter was tucked into the lid of the case, the paper weak with folding and unfolding. “Make sure to bring gifts for the boys. Karl wants new paints and Peter needs a new knife.” He’d bought the things in London, supervised, of course, and packed them in the middle of his duffle for protection on the journey. He had nothing for Edith. He hoped she would not mind. 

He leaned his head back against the grimy seat, stretched out his leg, stiffly. He was hungry but there was no food for sale on the train. Only coffee. At least that’s better in Germany he thought. Three years drinking coffee the colour of ditch water, and now he found the yearned-for cup too strong. But, God, it had smelled good at least, and given a good proper acid burn on the way down. He was feeling shaky and ill but it had been worth it. He needed a smoke to help him organise his thoughts. Goddamn you, Clive Candy. I want to fuck you. He swallowed hard, tasting of ash and bitter coffee. Clive’s mouth had tasted sweet at first and then like fire. Port and cigars he supposed. All those years apart and yet Clive was so familiar. The feel, the taste of him. The old wound had opened fresh as if it had never healed. He thought of the scar on Clive’s lip; that tender ridge under his moustache. “You’ve still got my mark on you.”  He had to pull himself together. Be careful. The compartment would be full soon enough. These pre-dawn hours were the most dangerous. He might say the name “Clive” in his sleep or in the bath where the echo would betray him. He felt his stubbled jaw. He was a mess. He longed for a smoke. He longed to kiss Clive again. No. Never again. He gripped Edith’s letter, shook it as if he were shaking himself. “Theo, my darling, hope this finds you well in Derbyshire. They tell me you will be home soon.”

Home. The word had almost no meaning anymore to him. “Well” in Derbyshire was always a relative concept. Too cold in winter, huddling in damp blankets, his men sick, miserable. He’d done what he could for them. Too hot in summer, sweating in wool. And always, always the rain. Goddamn English rain. He didn’t want to think of it. Any of it. God he wanted a cigarette. He’d played chess for cigarettes. He’d played games in the dark with Davies. Games for cigarettes.  He’d been rich with them in Derbyshire. The things he’d done for cigarettes in his life. If Edith knew. If Clive knew. But they would never know. Davies’ hands were like his own, but smaller. They’d looked womanish on the chess pieces. Felt womanish on his cock. He’d kept his eyes shut tight, and tried to think of Clive. Clive’s hands big and strong. His voice husky in the dark. His mouth sweet like Kirsch. Sweet like candy. What a name. Sugar candy. 

There were some sweets in his duffle. He could give those to Edith. But, no, he’d eaten one already. Selfish. “Theo, my darling.”  Five years. He’d not been so old when he left. Now, he saw only a tired old man; hair going grey, eyes bagged and wrinkled. Davies would be the last who would willingly pay for it. What to do for money? He’d take a room in town, look for work, and write to Clive as before. Oh, he would think about his inevitable ‘retirement’ from the army a little later. After Edith. After Breakfast. Faithful Edith. Seeing Clive had reminded him that she deserved better. “So help me I’ll lead the whole English Army up your stinking Stolpchensee if you hurt her.” He must take care of Edith. Clive expected him to. 

Clive and his honour and his VC, as if Theo could carry Edith through life like a wounded soldier in Jordaan Siding. No, that was unfair. That was the Clive he loved. He loved Edith, too. Their life, the boys. It was that absurd bachelor dinner that riled him still. What a circus! The whole lot of them, like a gang, talking rot about things they couldn’t understand. Hardly a brain between them. How had they ever won the war? “We’ll soon put Germany back on her feet again.” And she will spit in your eye, if you do it. Don’t forget. _No good deed goes unpunished_. One of the phrases learned from Davies. “Where did you learn that perfect English of yours,” Clive had boomed. Almost as if he knew, but no, he could not. And Davies sweating and blushing, and Clive unafraid, all friendly pats and loving looks. Clive’s hands on his knee, on his shoulder; so firm, so right. _God_ how he’d wanted to play Clive’s game - hide it in plain sight, but he hadn’t the nerve for it. And the cab ride in the horse carriage just like ’02, bouncing along like sex in a small bed. Clive’s bed in the hospital. Clive’s voice as he handed Theo out of the carriage. Clive’s husky voice in the dark. Never again.  

 

***

 

Theo stepped out onto the platform at Spandau. The first light of dawn peeked over the horizon. He took out his cigarette case automatically, but it was empty, still, mocking him. Edith’s letter was still there, too, tucked under the flap. He should telephone her, but he couldn’t bear to do it. Not just yet. He needed a little more time to put things in their proper place, push it all out of his crowded mind.

He paced the platform, felt some life return to his limbs and decided a walk would do him good. He hoisted his duffle over his shoulder and headed off in the direction of home. The morning was fresh and the dew hung in the stubble of the fields. The farmers had just cut the hay and it smelled sweet like late summer. It reminded him of something long ago which he couldn’t quite place. He’d often had that feeling in the countryside. How he’d loved Mariel’s estate and her stables. The smell of horse stalls. He didn’t know his parents or where he was born, but he was certain it had been somewhere in the countryside. 

His boots crunched the gravel and he tried to forget his marching pace, searching for a jaunty stride. He whistled _Je Suis Titania_. He refused to reflect on it further. It was a tune he knew well and that was all. It reminded him of gayer times. He had all the appearance of a hero returned from war, full of hope and romance. That was not how he felt, but that might come in time. The important thing was to look the part, feel it in your limbs, and make it automatic. On and on he crunched, each step bringing him closer to Edith and the boys, each breath of the sweet air remaking him.

The cottage, their home, glowed pink in the morning light. What Sasha could have done with the humble symmetry of the windows and the tidy green wall of the garden. Edith would be in bed, in their bed, big and soft with the enormous eiderdown comforter. How often he’d dreamed of that bed on his damp little cot in Derbyshire. And Edith would be asleep, her skin warm, her flesh soft and yielding, but with that firmness just beneath the surface, tantalising. He could just creep up the back stairs and climb in with her. He reached in his pocket for his key. Damn it! He had no house key. He couldn’t quite bring himself to knock like a stranger at his own door. He took a step back in consternation and the crunch of the gravel spoke once more, presenting him with his answer. He hurled a small pebble at the bedroom window. He waited, hopeful. He was quite excited now to see her, now that he was almost his old self. He picked up another and was about to throw it when she appeared and opened the sash.

“Theo!” Edith cried, putting her hand to her mouth. She looked like the ingénue in a melodrama, about to be ravished by the villain.

“Edith darling,” he called back in a stage whisper. “I’ve forgotten. I have no key.”

She disappeared for a moment and he stood there feeling foolish, listening to the birds chirp. Then the front door flung open and she stood staring at him, her face pale.  He approached, cautiously, quietly, and took her small, cool hands in his, bringing them to his lips, each in turn. She was in her nightgown, barefoot. 

“I’m sorry. I should have telephoned. I’ve given you a shock,” he said. 

“It’s alright. It was a surprise, but I’ll survive. Come inside, I’ll wake the boys and make coffee,” she said, seemingly somewhat less fragile.

“No coffee. That’s all I’ve had in my stomach for hours. Don’t wake the boys. Not just yet. Let me look at you first.” He spoke German. He was saving the English as a surprise for later. 

She looked lovely with her hair down, her blue eyes set off by her pale skin. She was trembling. Theo unbuttoned his greatcoat, wrapped it around her and guided her toward the garden. The gate clacked shut behind them and they sat on the bench. Behind the high walls they were as hidden as if they were in their own room - the sense of privacy even greater, because they didn’t have to fear waking the boys. 

“Are you warm enough, darling?” he said, drawing her closer.

“Fine, now thanks. Oh, Theo, I can’t believe you’re really here, with your arm around me. It doesn’t seem possible,” she said in a quavering voice.  

“Five years. It is a long time.” Those first two had gone by fast for him and yet those last three seemed endless, until the past few weeks. Until the concert. Until Clive. He shook himself slightly and turned to Edith. She was looking at the plants in the garden. 

“Every day I would come out here and potter. Sometimes just sit here on our bench and talk to you. ‘Theo,’ I’d say, ‘the Mandevilla took some damage in that frost. But it will come back. It will come ba-’” She broke off and started to cry.

“Hush, oh Edith. What is it?”

She shook her head, unable to explain. He thought he understood. It was harder to be left behind. 

Theo reached in his pocket for a handkerchief. He handed it to her and she blew her nose, a bit noisily, and they both smiled. She lifted her feet up onto his lap. He touched them. 

“God! Blocks of ice!” he said, with the hint of a smile.

“Sorry,” she said, though she looked nothing of the sort.

“I know just the thing,” he said, and he tucked her left foot into his armpit. She used to do it with Karl and Peter when they played out on the ice too long as little boys.

“My old trick. It works quicker than anything.”  She smiled, and for a moment he felt as if they had crossed the gap of years. Here was the old tenderness, the old closeness. If they could only stay in this moment.

“Better?” he asked, seeing that it had worked. 

“Much. Now the other?” she asked, offering it to him. He took her small, cold foot and smiled, putting under his other arm. He laughed and so did she. It felt good to laugh with her.

“Theo, did you remember the presents?” she asked sleepily. 

“Of course. Just like you said. Paints for Karl. A knife for Peter. It is an English knife. I hope he will not mind.”

“He will be so happy. They’ve been through a lot you know, more than I’ve said. There were fights at school at first and then they were just excluded. That was somehow worse.”

“Thank God, we had two. They have each other. But you, Edith. You had no one, all these years. My poor girl.”

“I’ve been alright. The boys looked after me. They’ve really grown so much. Karl is almost a man. He will be shaving soon. You can teach him.”

She spoke with a far-away, happy expression. It calmed him to see her this way. She had frequently written in a similar way of the boys and he had reread those letters when he was at his worst in the camp. 

 “And Peter looks so much like you. He is quite charming when he wants to be. I think it won’t be long before he has the heart of every girl in Spandau.”

“And why should he care to? He already has the most beautiful girl in town wrapped around his finger,” Theo said, kissing her hand, working the old charm.

He lifted her up. How light she felt; how small she was in his hands. Smaller than he remembered. She had lost weight. He put her in his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, shyly at first and then with some fire. His hands were still wrapped around her waist. He could feel ribs. He squeezed hard as if she might disappear if he did not hold her tight. She broke the kiss and gasped. 

“Sorry darling, did I hurt you?”

She responded by kissing him again, deeper this time, with a forcefulness that reminded him of - he pushed the thought from his mind. He reached up and began to unbutton her nightgown. There were a lot of small buttons on the neck line. Damn them. His hands were too shaky from the coffee. His stomach growled. Edith stopped kissing him.

“Theo, we should really get you some breakfast.” And that sounded so good to Theo, but he felt it would be rude to not finish what he’d started.

“I’m fine, really,” he said feebly, struggling with a button.

“Theo, it’s alright. I understand. You’ve had a long journey. You must be exhausted,” she said, but there was something anxious and unhappy in her eyes. They could do it now. Here in the garden, as before. It was what she wanted. What she deserved after such a long wait. Do it now, he thought, but he felt only numb and hungry and his cock would never co-operate.  

“You are right. I am tired from the train and -” he faltered and pushed his face into her breast because he didn’t know what else to do. She ruffled his hair, brushing her hand across his scar. _You’ve still got my mark on you._ Theo shut his eyes and willed the thoughts away. But it was no use. He was too shattered to fight back. She held him, and they sat that way for a moment, silent. He listened to her heart, once so familiar.  He thought of Clive’s thumping pulse under his hand, _Mein Herz_.

“There’s no rush,” she said, “you’re here now and that’s all that matters.”   

“Yes. You’re right, as always, darling,” he said, and he goosed her backside and she gave a little yelp. There she was still soft and yielding. The war hadn’t robbed him of that. She looked down at him. She was so lovely. He managed a mischievous smile.

“Stop or you’ll never get that breakfast.”

“Ahh, breakfast. Homemade bread and jam, ham, cheese, butter…”

“Don’t get your hopes up. There’s still rationing, remember. We haven’t had ham in three years.”

“Yes, of course. It was the same in England. Silly of me to think I could return home and have it all magically back the way it was.”  

“Well, darling, I knew you were coming. You mustn’t despair. I’ve been saving up. I have some margarine and some bread. I made jam this year. It’s quite good, if I do say so myself. I traded some of my tomatoes with Mrs Gutneckt and got some cheese.” She looked quite proud of her efforts. She had managed things well, he was sure. She was always strong in a crisis. 

She climbed down from his lap and led him toward the cottage. She walked quickly across the cold gravel walk. It was madness to have kept her out here barefoot. Selfish. She paused at the threshold and looked back at him, her eyes full of tears.

“Maybe tomorrow I will be able to look at you without sobbing.”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, tenderly as if it were a precious holy thing. And it was. His eyes were burning now as fought the tears. The exhaustion, Clive, all of it was getting on top of him. If he wasn’t careful he would break down in front of her or - God forbid - the boys. 

 

***

 

Theo lay on his back on the raft in the late afternoon sun, eyes closed as he smoked a cigarette. He took a deep drag, savouring it. Thank God, Edith had kept a pack by for him, a bit stale but still the best he’d had in months. The sound of the raft creaking and bobbing in the water soothed him. The sun glowed red through his closed lids. He listened to the boys splashing in the distance and Edith’s gentle admonitions to take care. It wasn’t really warm enough for swimming, but Edith had indulged him and the boys had reluctantly agreed to join them. They were happy enough now, larking about near the shore with their mother. He felt as if he were miles from them. His mind drifted back to that spring day in ’02. It hadn’t been warm enough for swimming then either. He and Clive Candy had climbed out of the freezing water and sunned themselves, naked. How desperate Theo had been to see Clive, to see all of him. And it seemed that Clive had arranged himself just so, pretending to study the sky so that Theo could look at him. He had gazed longingly at every part of his strong body, gleaming in the sun. Would that Sasha had painted Clive. Now that would be a picture! The layers of his skin, almost transparent in the sun, the blue shadows under his back and shoulder blades. The shadows putting the rest in stark relief: Clive’s legs, strong and even like the trunks of hardy young trees; Clive’s chest broad and smooth and his flat stomach with the hairs trailing down. Theo had looked as long as he dared, his own cock stirring at the sight, the cold water only cooling slightly the desire that had been building for weeks every time he had rubbed Clive’s shoulder, every time Clive had put his arm heavy in drink around his friend. Had he known, he would have simply reached over and oh, - but no. He had not known, and would not find out till it was almost too late. Bathing always reminded him of that feeling, of those first days when he’d first been in love with Clive and that excruciating, almost pleasurable feeling of being uncertain his feelings would be returned. What would he do if he opened his eyes and saw Clive Candy across from him now?    

The raft dipped down to one side as Peter heaved himself aboard.  Theo sat up, shook himself from his reverie and braced his head on his arm.  Peter stood over him dripping. He was lean, but tall for his age. Edith had done well, at much sacrifice to herself, Theo was sure. He was a handsome boy, there was no denying, and in his profile Theo saw his own features in miniature. It was all as Edith had said, but Theo had yet to see the charm she had spoken of. 

“Mama, look!” Peter shouted and waved to his mother on shore. He clasped his arms above his head and dove into the river without a splash. Theo watched with pride as the boy’s head bobbed up the surface. 

“Bravo! A perfect dive!” Theo called out.

Peter ignored him and swam across to Edith.

“Mama, did you see?” 

“Yes, dear. It was perfect, just like papa said.”

Theo looked across the river and saw Edith on the bank, on a blanket in the sun, reading a book. The new dresses were a disappointment, with their baggy waists and sailor bows, but the new swimming costumes were something else entirely. Edith looked wonderful in hers. It showed off her willowy legs and arms to great advantage. Perhaps the idea was to save wool for uniforms. An excellent plan! You could now see as much of a woman’s body at the beach as you could of a man’s. His own swimming costume was so loose it barely stayed on; it had filled with air when he was floating on his back. 

Karl climbed up on the raft and stood over him, shaking the water from his hair in huge drops that pelted on the raft. Theo shielded his face from the drops with his hand.

 “Can I go to see my girlfriend?” Karl asked. In the strong light Theo noticed a few downy red hairs on Karl’s lip. How much Theo had missed. His boys were almost strangers; even their voices had changed.   

“What does your mother say?” Theo asked, hoping not to have to make a decision.

“She said to ask you.” Karl said flatly. 

“I don’t see why not. Take Peter with you,” he said, knowing that he and Edith would have to face being alone eventually, and that it might as well be sooner rather than later. 

“What? Oh _no_. That’s the worst.”

“If you want to go, take Peter with you. That is the deal.” Theo said, trying to keep the Oberst out of his voice. 

“You just want to get rid of us.” Karl said with some pique in his voice.

“Push us back over to the other bank, will you?” Theo said, refusing to debate the point further.

“Yes, papa,” Karl said with a slightly derisive tone. Theo knew he should say something about it, that to fail to remark on a small point of disrespect would be to invite further problems later on. But maybe children weren’t like soldiers? Karl pulled up the anchor and used the pole to push them out of the muddy bank.

Peter was sitting on the blanket with Edith. She was drying his hair with a towel. Theo stood up and hopped the short gap to the bank, landing next to Edith. She squinted up at him.   

“Right, off you go, the pair of you,” she said. “Be back by dinner.”

“I don’t want to go. Karl doesn’t want me to go. I want to stay here with you, mama.”

“Peter. If you don’t go now, there’ll be no pudding tonight,” Theo said, sternly.

“There’s never any pudding anyway,” Peter said patronisingly. Of course, the dreaded rationing.  Theo had forgotten.  

“I brought a special treat for you, but I won’t tell you what it is if you don’t go now.”

“What is it? I bet it’s not even good.” Peter said, folding his arms and looking up at Theo in defiance. “Some crummy old English toffees like Aunt Martha sends.” 

“It’s not toffee. Now, go or you’ll never find out.” Theo said, hoping the presents would be counted as better than toffee. What was wrong with toffee, anyway? He could go for some now. _You have a sweet tooth_ , Davies had remarked, and the expression had stayed with him as one of the best he’d heard.   

“I won’t. I don’t care if I never find out,” Peter said and leaned back smugly against his mother.

“Peter! Enough!” Edith said, gently pushing the boy away.

“You are making things worse for yourself, young man,” Theo said with a threatening glare. 

Peter got up reluctantly and followed Karl up the bank, toward the house. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Edith said. “He’s going to need some time, I think. We’ve grown very close, I’m afraid.”

“I’m just used to having all my orders obeyed. Give me time. I’ll adapt soon, I promise,” he said and sat down on the blanket next to Edith. He reached over and took the book out of her hands examining it. “What’s this?  _A Room with a View._ E. M. Forster?”

“Yes, it’s English. It reminds me of home in parts and it’s quite funny. I was hoping to cheer myself up.”  

“What’s it about?”

“Love, I think. And philosophy.”

Theo nodded. “Where did you find English books during the war?”

“In that shop in Alexanderplatz. The one that sells foreign newspapers. Next to the butchers.”

“I know the one. Oh, shopping. I’ve missed it. Even with rationing, it’s a real luxury to just walk into a shop and buy something.” 

 “Yes. I imagine it must be strange to be free all of a sudden. What are you going to do with yourself, now?” Her tone was conversational, but the question annoyed him.

“Not thinking about that yet,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended.   

“I just want to lie here with you,” he continued, and leaned back on his elbows, arching his head back, putting his face to the sun. She was quiet. He sat up again and studied her as she read. Her face was calm, inscrutable. He had offended her, probably. It was only fair to ask about the future. He just couldn’t think of it now. Today. The first day back. His mind still so full of - . No, he would draw her out. Change the subject.  

“What does it say?” he asked, pointing to the book. 

“I’m not a good translator,” she said, flatly.  

“You don’t have to translate. My English is good enough to follow. Go ahead,” he smiled and nodded eagerly. 

She looked at him sceptically.

“You needn’t look so surprised. My English has been declared ‘perfect.’ So read,” he said and realized his request sounded like an order. “If you please.” He added with a slight bow of his head.

She smiled at him. He was trying. He hoped she could see that.   

“Oh very well, then. I like this bit. It’s about two young men and a clergyman. Mr Beebe is the clergyman. And one of the young men, George, is in love with the other fellow’s sister. Only that doesn’t really matter here. It’s just a funny situation. 

“‘Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?’ called Freddy, as he stripped himself.” Edith read, changing her voice to sound youthful. She read quickly in English. Theo struggled to follow her, but he smiled and she carried on.

“Mr. Beebe thought he was not. 

‘Water's wonderful!’ cried Freddy, prancing in. 

‘Water's water,’ murmured George. Wetting his hair first - a sure sign of apathy - he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads. 

‘Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,’ went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. 

‘Is it worth it?’ asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. 

The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. 

‘Hee-poof—I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping.’ 

‘Water's not so bad,’ said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. 

‘Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.’

‘Apooshoo, kouf.’” 

Edith glanced up from the book. Theo was puzzled at the nonsense words at first, but soon realised it was the sound one makes while spitting out water. He smiled and motioned for her to carry on.

“Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind - these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?” 

She finished the passage and looked up for as if for his approval. 

“What is Michelangelesque?” he asked. 

“I suppose someone in a pose like a Michelangelo. It made me think of the _David,_ ” she said but the explanation served only to perplex. “A famous statue of a beautiful young man, naked and standing in a casual pose. She turned her head to the side, a rather bored, annoyed expression on her face. A flicker of recognition as Theo remembered Sasha’s small plaster bust, labelled “souvenir of Florence.” 

“Oh yes, Day-vid,” he said. “You do the face very well. I knew what you meant, instantly. I have seen that statue before. Not the original of course. A copy. The way he stands with his weight on one leg. A simple thing we do every day, but very difficult to get just so, I think.”

“Well, Michelangelo was a great artist to take the everyday and make it divine.”

“Yes, a great artist,” he said feebly. She was studying him, expectantly. He felt as though he had put his foot into a trap, but didn’t know whether standing still or withdrawing would spring it. He added cautiously, “Your Forster has done the same, as well, making the bathing into a sacred moment with the clergyman baptising himself.”

“Has he? Why yes, I suppose. I hadn’t thought of that. I was more struck by the description of George being like a beautiful statue,” she said and Theo thought he detected something slightly arch in her voice. She was up to something.

Theo nodded slowly in agreement. “This Forster, the E. is perhaps for ‘Edith’,” he teased.

“No the author is a man, I believe.” Edith said.  “A man capable great appreciation of the male body,” she said, pointedly.  Theo was certain she was making the opening moves in some kind of game. Of course the passage had reminded him of Clive, the bathing. Had he not just been thinking of an artist capturing Clive’s beauty? The phrase “simply ripping” was something he might almost have said. How could she know this was what he’d been thinking? He could think of no safe reply so he sat dumbly, fiddling with the fringe on the edge of the blanket, pretending to study some ducks floating on the river. 

“Oh well, after that it gets a bit slapstick I’m afraid,” Edith said, after a pause. “They are discovered bathing by the girl, Freddy’s sister and her rather priggish fiancée.” 

Theo laughed. “I will read this book when you have finished. I like it already!”  

“It is quite good. This scene reminds me of home. Summer days bathing in the river. My brothers were forever getting dirty and bathing and getting dirty again. It was perpetual.”

“Has it helped to cheer you up? This English book?” he asked.

“Yes and no. This might have made me unbearably sad yesterday, thinking of home and how I couldn’t go back there. I can safely read it now that you’re here,” she said and reached out to him and he took her hand.

“Do you miss England so much?” he asked. Could he ever go back, he wondered, after everything that had happened?  

“Sometimes. It’s little things you know. Like swimming in the river.”

“We could go back now, I suppose,” he said. The idea was so strange. As soon as he’d said it, he regretted it. How would he ever put these things behind him, if he courted them so? Did he even want to put Clive behind him? Of course not. But he must. 

“Now that the war is over, yes, I think I’d like that. We could take the boys. They’ve never met their grandparents.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” he said, absently, his mind caught still on Clive.

“Theo?” 

“Hmm?”

“Did you see Clive when you were in England?”

The question unsettled him, though he’d been expecting it. Could she see his thoughts?

“Yes, I saw Clive, the night before last. He saw me off at the train,” he said, keeping his tone as matter of fact as possible. “He is still the same. Married now. No children. He was very determined that I should meet her, but it didn’t work out,” Theo hoped the fact that Clive was married would divert suspicion. He studied Edith’s reaction.Her face blanched momentarily and returned to normal. 

“Clive married! Oh that’s lovely. I’m so glad. He deserves someone. I do hope she’s nice.”

“She sounds very nice. Clive is quite crazy about her,” Theo said, thinking of his own irrational jealousy at the glowing way Clive had spoken of Barbara.  

Edith looked away, eyes following the ducks that were moving down stream. Was she jealous as well? He couldn’t tell.

“He cheered me up. I was quite depressed about the future.” He smiled, deprecatingly. “Very German, I know you will say.”

“I’m glad, that Clive is still the same. It is very reassuring.”

“Is it not? Yes. I was so looking forward to coming home and seeing you and the children, of course, but I could not help but worry about the army, and my job and future - all these things that I’m avoiding thinking of now, because I am here with you in the sunshine.” She turned back to him and smiled and he put his arms around her drawing her close, kissing her head. He’d done it. He’d spoken of Clive and she was none the wiser. He was safe, now. He relaxed and lay back, stretching in the sun, closing his eyes.

She was quiet for some time, and he supposed she’d gone back to her book. 

“Theo, are you awake?”

“Yes, darling. Just resting my eyes,” he smiled.

“It’s just that I wondered. You said you’d seen that statue, the _David_ , somewhere. I was just wondering where?”

She sounded nonchalant enough. He squinted with one eye at her. He couldn’t see her face with the glare of the sun behind her.

“Oh I don’t remember. At the home of a friend, I suppose.”

“An artist friend?” she asked pointedly. It seemed almost as if she knew something about his past.

“I uh,” he stammered. He sat up and looked her in the eye. Her face was expectant but not angry. He had seen that look before when she was soothing the children. Somehow he felt he could tell her. Felt that she knew already on some level. He must try for her understanding. It would be worth the risk.

“Darling -”

“Yes, Theo.”

“I have done a terrible thing. I have kept a secret from you.” He took her hand. It was cool from the damp ground. 

“What is it Theo?” her expression was unchanged, expectant and calm. There was no going back now anyway.

“I have a past -” he began, perhaps more grandly than he’d intended. 

“We all do, darling,” she said, seemingly unimpressed by his beginning. 

“But mine is. Well, mine is not what you think it is.” How could he get through this? Where to begin?

“What do I think about your past?” she said, her face inscrutable. Careful. He must approach this as slowly as possible. 

“When we met, Frau Von Kalterneck, Mariel, was my girlfriend. And you know I had other girlfriends, before her?”

“I had gathered as much, yes.”

“Well, it’s just that sometimes back then,” he paused, still undecided though there was nothing left to decide, except how best to say it. “I had boyfriends, too,” he said at last. He waited, his brow furrowed in expectation.

 “I see.” Edith said, coldly, her face reddening. He’d gone too far. What madness had led him to this confession? Clive and all his talk of his wife, his Goddamn understanding wife. 

“But that’s all over now, Edith. It was over when I married you. You must believe that.” He was pleading now. Piling lies on top of lies. Goddamn it. How had he left himself so vulnerable? The exhaustion, he supposed.

“Why are you telling me this now, Theo? Did something happen in England that you feel you need to confess?” she asked icily, her eyes narrowed; he felt them boring into his face for the slightest clue.

Theo panicked again. Good God, she knew it all. He would swear to it. Or perhaps she was bluffing. She was a clever card player. He mustn’t expose his whole hand. 

“No, nothing, like that, I swear. It was something you said about the statue. It was at the home of a friend. A…boyfriend,” he managed. 

She was silent. Her eyes were dry. The red on her cheeks subsided. She had not screamed or run from him or even given him a reproachful look. She must be in shock, but she did not seem to be. She seemed calm. Could it be that she was like Clive’s Barbara? Understanding?  

“While you were away,” she said, quietly, “they came round collecting for the war effort. They wanted rags, oil, household chemicals, those kinds of things. I took it as a good opportunity to have a clear out.  So I started in the attic with your things.”

“The footlocker. My God! I should have destroyed those pictures, but I could never bring myself to do it.”

Edith looked disgusted. She had misunderstood.  

“Not because he, Sasha - that was his name - was still important to me. No, that is far in the past.” He tried a smile, willing her to believe him. “Only, they were so good - and I suppose I was flattered to be the subject,” he said, desperate for her to understand. 

She looked somewhat placated, but he couldn’t tell for certain.

“I’m so sorry you found out that way. I should have told you long ago.” Goddamn those pictures.  They really did mean nothing to him now. He would gladly trade them for his lost picture of Clive. The rest, the shirt, the postcards, were harmless, he was sure.

“I could destroy them now, if that would help?” he offered.

“No, that’s pointless. They _are_ good, after all,” she admitted, sounding reluctant. “We aren’t going to hang them in the living room,” she smiled, wryly, “but you should be able to keep tucked away.”

He cautiously looped his arm through hers, was encouraged when she didn’t pull away.

“Can you forgive me for marrying you without telling you?” he asked, gently. “When we got together in Berlin, things were so rushed. I was so eager to convince you to accept me that I fear I omitted certain things.” 

“I don’t know,” she said, slowly, “If I can forgive you. A great deal of what we have is built on a lie. Don’t you see that?”

“No, it is not built on a lie. I don’t see that.” God forgive him, but he must make her understand. “I see my wife, Edith, of 15 years. The woman I chose. The mother of my children. I see that I’ve been gone five years and that you have waited for me faithfully and I’ve come home now. I’ve come back to you. I will always come back to you, Edith.” He was aware that he was making a speech, as he had on the train. And just as on the train it was true, even if it was not the whole truth. But it was what she needed to hear. He was desperate for her understanding.

 She had begun to cry. He was close to tears himself. She reached out to him and he hugged her close. 

“I suppose I should be grateful,” she mumbled into his neck, “that I’ve had fifteen good years. I just feel such a fool.”

“Hush, no, why?”

“I can’t stop feeling like I was duped.”

“Because I didn’t tell you, then? It is something that very few women would understand, let alone forgive,” he said, thinking - damn it - once more of Clive, and his ‘girl in a million’, “and I could not bear to take the risk, and lose you.” He still held her close, almost afraid to loosen his grip. “Can you honestly say you would have just accepted it and married me?”

“No,” she said, laughing ruefully, “I wouldn’t have married you. I’m sure of that. Things were touch and go as it was.”   

“And you’d be back in England, alone, with no children, living with your family. Is that what you want?” he asked quietly, his voice not much above a whisper.  She closed her eyes, looked as if she were about to shake her head, “No.” He soothed her hair with his hands, brushing it out of her face.   

“I might have had another offer,” she said teasingly, but the words cut him. He hadn’t been expecting it. He pulled away, stung, all the more miserable because he had no right to be hurt.  

“From Clive?” he asked, bitterly. “You’re thinking. Yes, I can see it. You think that if you would have waited, Clive would have asked you to marry him? Is that why you couldn’t stop crying the day Clive left on the train? Because you were in love with him?” 

“No!” she said. “Yes. Oh, I don’t _know_. I was so confused,” she said and buried her face in her hands.  

“You must have been so disappointed, to be stuck with me.”

“No, not disappointed, darling, just in a muddle. I thought I was in love with him one minute and you the next.”

Theo grunted. He felt the injustice of the whole situation, again. How he longed to shout at her, to tell that she could wait until doomsday and Clive would not have proposed to her. That Clive loved him and he loved Clive, for that was the real secret burning inside him. The other things; Sasha, Davies, all those nights on the Berlin streets, they were nothing, compared to that. But her reaction, even to Sasha! She must never know, about Clive. She would never understand. And he had handled it badly. He was tired, and heartsore, and wanted only for things to be as they were before; easy, safe, _home_. He was a fool. He must do his best to convince her of his loyalty to her. It wasn’t too late. He must reassure her. If only he weren’t so exhausted. 

“You were not always honest with me, then, either?” Theo said, careful to speak lightly, not to accuse.  

“No,” Edith sighed, “I suppose not. But none of us is born in a vacuum. There were things about me that I did not tell you.”

Here was his opening. If she wanted to talk about the past, fine. He could get her talking about herself; deflect attention away from his own wrongs. They might go back to some kind of equal footing. 

“What was it, darling?” he asked, sympathetically. 

“You knew I received a proposal, before I was in Germany.”

“Yes. You mentioned it once. I just assumed all pretty English girls had dozens of proposals. Oscar Wilde would have one think so,” he said, teasing. He relaxed a little and leaned back on his arms.  

“You mustn’t judge by Oscar Wilde,” she said, and Theo thought he detected a trace of gaiety in her words. “I’ve only ever had two proposals.”

“And this second proposal?”

“His name was James. He was a friend of the family. His father was a respected solicitor and an M.P. And James was very political too. That was how we formed our, our friendship. He was a very passionate advocate of women’s suffrage. We spent all our time organising teas and rallies.”

“Oh and darling, you have won. You wrote to me that you voted; only I did not think…” he said, remembering the spirited letter she’d written. In the camp, he’d though only that it was lovely to hear the old Edith, full of fire. He hadn’t really understood what it had meant to her.

“Yes, that was a great moment. But a little sad as well. I couldn’t help but feel I’ve been out of it all for so long, that I was resting on the shoulders of others,” she said, a little wistfully.

“Nonsense. It is they who are on your shoulders. Where would they be, these young suffragettes chaining themselves up, without the Miss Hunters of this world to lay the groundwork?” he said and gestured broadly, aware that he was play-acting a bit. “Oh, but I am sad you never chained yourself up. I would so like to have seen that!” he said and leaned in to her and planted a small, quick kiss on her bare shoulder. She didn’t pull away.

“Don’t be saucy. I’m quite serious,” she said, but he saw her repressing a smile. 

“I’m sorry, darling, do carry on,” he said putting on an over-contrite face.

“Over time James and I became more than friends. And then he went away to University and we wrote to each other. We felt ourselves very modern. We weren’t even engaged. And I fell in love with his letters. With his mind. And he fell in love with me, I think. Everything was arranged for Christmas. There would be a party, and we would tell our parents. I was very particular about that. I was going to be the one to tell my father, not James. It was all arranged and the party came. I had my first ball gown.”

“Oh you must have looked lovely.” It was easiest to fall back on the old ways; charm and flattery. 

“I felt awkward. And I was freezing. There wasn’t very much to it, I’m afraid.” She said it as if that were a bad thing.

“He must have been enchanted with you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I am picturing you, the most beautiful girl in England.”

“Theo, really, you miss the point,” she scolded, but she didn’t seem annoyed. This was an old game they’d played many times. 

“Sorry, dear, I get carried away, sometimes,” Theo said, and released her hand with a pat. 

“I was there at the party in my new gown, and my bare shoulders. We were about to make the announcement. We were dancing and it all went wrong. He put his arms around me, and I could not tolerate his touch.” She paused, as if searching for the right words. 

“We’d never really done much in the way of things before he went to University,” she said, blushing. “Just kissing and it was alright, I suppose, but this, this was just wrong. He’d never really touched me before, on my bare skin. It made me all shivery and annoyed. I wanted to smack him across the face. And then I noticed his hands. They seemed - small and his arms were very hairy. They were really quite simian.”

“What is ‘simian’?” She had said the word in English.

“Another word for monkey.”

“Ah, but I am a monkey and you like me, no?” he said, remembering a game he’d played with the children that had always made Edith laugh.

“You are mischievous like a monkey, Theo, but you are not simian. You have the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen. I’ve always thought so. They are very strong, and capable, but with a lovely grace to them,” she said, sounding almost reverential.

Theo looked at his hands and shrugged. He took her fingers and entwined them in his.  

“Go on. You were about to strike this monkey man.”

“Well, of course, I didn’t hit him. But I pulled away from him. I retreated and told him I had a headache. The next day he came around to see how I was feeling and I told him that I never wanted to see him again.”

“He must have been heartbroken,” Theo said. He was picturing it, a chimp in a top hat, hanging his head in despair.

“He was, I suppose. He suddenly turned barrister on me and began to interrogate me, demanding to know why I was rejecting him. He was convinced that there was someone else. It was very unpleasant. I couldn’t quite tell him the truth and he sensed that. He seized on it like a terrier and wouldn’t let go. Finally I told him that I wanted to have a career. I told him I wanted to work and find out what it was like to make my own living before I settled down and got married. I made it all about women’s rights. Which I suppose it was really. But there was more, the part that I couldn’t tell him - that I just couldn’t marry a man who - ” she paused. She was struggling to find the words. 

“Who you didn’t find attractive?” Theo offered.

“That’s just it. I did find him attractive, in many ways, but - when he touched me. He, he repulsed me physically,” she said and Theo realised that she had dropped his hand and was hugging her knees. Theo wondered why she’d never spoken of any of this before. It seemed important for her to get it out. He waited for her to carry on, but she was quiet, her face resting on her knees. She turned to look at him but still seemed far away.

“What did you do, in the end, with James?” he asked, stirring her out of her reverie.

“I stuck to my guns. He relented in the end, but not before he got my parents involved. They were outraged of course. They’d always hoped we’d marry and they didn’t think I would find anyone half so eligible. They kept reminding me that I had only a very small dowry and that no man would take me on such a small sum,” she said, her voice rising as she spoke. “Well, that did it, you see. That pushed me out of the door, like nothing else. What further proof did I need of the sorry state of my sex, than the bald fact that I was nothing more than chattel for men to bargain over? I put my advertisement out as soon as I could and was gone within weeks.”

“But you were not a governess long,” Theo said with a smile, remembering the day in the boat. That was no governess that had undressed him.

“I was at it long enough to know that it was a miserable existence. I hated it and I was so lonely. Daily, I thought of packing it in and going home with my tail between my legs. And the political situation was unbearable. At least it seemed so at the time. It’s funny how embattled I felt. In comparison to what I’ve just been through it was nothing!”

He nodded. Oh, it was awful to think of what she’d been through. He’d spent so long, trying not to dwell on the danger, the discomfort she was in. He’d had his men and his uniform and still it had been hard to be despised or pitied in England. He thought of the rowdy young men on the platform at the train station in London.  He winced thinking of Edith standing alone at the platform in Spandau waiting for the tram.  

“Perhaps you felt it more, the political situation, because you were young and alone in a strange place.”

 “Yes, I suppose that is the difference. I was just on the verge of packing it in when I met Clive,” she said. She paused and Theo held his breath. He needed to stay calm or she would know everything, and she would be terribly hurt.

“Clive was, well, you know him best, don’t you? I don’t need to tell you,” she continued, and he could not stop the flush rising on his neck.    

“He was so arrogant at first,” Edith carried on, “I’m sure I hated him. And though he was handsome, he wasn’t exactly my ideal.”

“And what is your ideal?” Theo asked, at once both genuinely curious, and hoping to deflect his own fixation on Clive.

“Oh you, of course, darling. Tall and lean and well proportioned. And Clive was a bit broad in the chest and his shoulders sloped a bit. Oh, but listen to me. How picky I was! And what must he have thought of me? Bossy, opinionated, the worst sort of jumped up modern girl,” she said shaking her head at the memory. “But that day in the café, the day of the row that lead to the duel. Well, I started to see him differently. He got into a fist fight and I was appalled of course, but also -” 

“Also what?” Theo probed, but he thought he could guess. Her face flushed as she talked about Clive.

“Excited. He was so brave and vigorous. I’d never met anyone like him. He was affectionate, and he would touch me in that casual friendly way of his, you know, firmly and it always just felt so right,” she said, sounding as if she had forgotten she was talking to her husband.  And oh God, it was true, what she was saying about the way that Clive touched people. 

“His hands were, well, anything but simian, they were massive and a bit gnarled, almost like  a - a Hebrew patriarch or a prophet in an old painting. That is a strange thing to say, but that’s what I think.” She broke off, suddenly and looked self-conscious. 

“No. That is quite right. You have described Clive Candy’s hands perfectly,” Theo said, trying to sound light. He hoped he didn’t betray too much, but it was strangely lovely to talk about him with her. They were like two schoolgirls with a crush on the same boy. He smiled to himself at the thought. 

“Have I?” She sounded uncertain. “Well, there was Clive with his hands and his fisticuffs and I knew what it was like for the first time to really want someone, in that way. And then the duel happened and I was beside myself really. You should have seen me that day in the carriage. It was all over me. I was sure the entire foreign office could see that I’d lost my heart to him.”

“So you were in love with him?” Theo said. He felt strangely comforted by the idea.

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think it was love. Not really. After the duel, when you were both in the hospital, I thought it was. But it was such a maddening situation. I was never alone with Clive and you two always seemed to be together.” Theo blanched, wondering if Edith was ever suspicious of his time alone with Clive.  “And Frau von Kalterneck was always there, sticking her oar in.” 

“And I misled you my darling, didn’t I, about Mariel and Clive? I didn’t mean to. I genuinely believed she meant to have him. She proposed to him!” he exclaimed hoping, to deflect away from the topic of his long afternoons and evenings with Clive. “I couldn’t imagine any man turning her down. She was very forceful in her way. Very persuasive.”  

“Oh, Theo, I know your intentions were very good. Your proposal was the sweetest, most selfless thing I’ve ever known in my whole life. I thought it was a miracle at the time,” she said, her voice full of emotion. “That’s what makes this so hard. I’ve spent the last two years - that’s how long I’ve known about your Sasha - replaying every second of our marriage in my head. I’ve questioned all of it, even your proposal.  Your beautiful proposal,” she broke off, crying again.  

“‘I don’t know what to say,” he said slipping his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know what I can do to convince you.” He shivered. The guilt. Would he ever get past it?  

 “Oh, what is there to say?” she said in a tone that was more exasperation than despair. She dabbed her eyes on the corner of the blanket “Come on, let’s go in. You’re freezing and I need to blow my nose.”

Theo smiled, wanly, “Yes, I think I’ve caught a chill.”  

He stood up and helped Edith to her feet. They walked arm in arm up the bank toward the house. Perhaps he would have a little brandy to ward off the chill, but he should change first. They both should get out of their wet things. 

Their room was lovely and warm, dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun. What was the word Forster had used? “Chorically.” Like a choir, he imagined. Theo loosened his trunks and they fell to floor in a puddle. Edith began to take off her swimming costume and turned her back to him as she reached for her dressing gown. Seeing her there naked, in the warm light, he felt his exhaustion slip away. It was so simple really, so easy. Talking made everything difficult and complicated. But this made sense to him. His body could say everything he needed to say better than he could. Not that it was always the answer, but in his experience so much could be fixed this way. It was as Edith had said on the bank, the way Clive had touched her was firm and right, uncomplicated. He took a step toward her and took her gently by the shoulders. Her neck was warm, lovely. He buried his face in it. Edith moaned quietly. He moved on kissing her shoulder, white and firm. He nipped lightly at the flesh with his teeth, feeling the resistance there. She was stronger now from the gardening, the housework. He looked down and saw the curve of her breast. He reached out and cupped it in his hand, squeezing, careful not to pinch. She was smaller than he’d remembered. His hand carried on, across her stomach, flat with the meals she’d sacrificed for the boys. He stretched his arm out farther and ran his fingers over the little fringe of ginger hair between her legs. She moaned louder. How had he forgotten her little noises, somehow both delicate and guttural? He felt his cock hardening.  

He wondered if Edith ever thought about Clive, the way he did. It was strange, knowing they’d shared him in a way. Exciting. Did she ever touch herself and think of Clive? Even now? With his big hands on her little cunt. Inside she was hot and wet. God, he was hard now. He caught her ear lobe gently in his teeth, released, breathing hot into her ear, he whispered in English, “Edith, I’ve missed you so, darling.”  

She gasped out his name and strained to turn toward him, gripping the side of his head, tugging at his hair. He still held her shoulders firmly, and for a brief moment, he thought of spreading her out, taking her from behind. He could pretend he was fucking Clive, God, or imagine Clive fucking her. No. No, it had to stop. He needed to get Clive out of his head somehow. He knew what Edith would want and she deserved her own way. Five years was a long time to be faithful.  

He released her shoulders and she whirled round, pulling him into a fierce kiss. He kissed back, resisting the urge to move too quickly. She reached down and gripped his cock, a bit clumsily. It had been a long time after all. He broke the kiss and sat down on the bed. She looked momentarily worried, but he smiled mischievously as he leaned against the head board. He took her hand and pulled her toward the bed as slowly as he could manage. Her breath came faster with anticipation. She stood over him, naked, lovely. He slowly reached over, putting one hand on her hip; he could feel the bone jutting against his palm, his poor girl. He guided her onto the bed with her legs straddling his chest, her pretty little fringe of red hair, at the same height as his moustache. He reached back and grabbed her arse, pulling her forward, slowly. Yes, there was the flesh, soft and yielding and firm. She gasped as his jaw, still unshaven, scraped against her inner thigh. She reached up and supported herself on the low ceiling of their little attic bedroom, her head thrown back, throat exposed, breasts dangling like heavy fruit above. He could smell her cunt, hot, briny - the peculiar English phrase “kettle of fish” coming to mind. He steered with her arse, slowly pushing her cunt against the tip of his nose. “God, yes, Theo. Lick me!” she whispered hoarsely as he slowly poked and teased her, breathing heavily against her thighs. She reached down and wrapped her fingers in his hair, pulling painfully. “Ouch” he said laughing, but he took pity. He knew when she’d had enough teasing. He gripped her arse and pulled her squarely down on his face, plunging his outstretched tongue deep inside her. 

“Yes, that!” She managed. The rest was an incoherent mix of German and English as she thrust against his face, pushing against the wall for leverage. He was enveloped in her, his face wet with her juices as she rode him. He could smell, taste, think of nothing but her. She grunted out, loudly. She hadn’t made this much noise in years, he thought, delighted. She stiffened and held her breath as she came. She pulled back violently as he did his best to continue to lick her. She was laughing, her face reddening with embarrassment as she climbed down off him. She curled against him, her head on his chest. 

“Do you want me to?” she said, tugging lazily at his hardened cock. Theo shook his head. She let it go and toyed with his chest hair idly. 

“I missed you so much. I missed this so much. I still can’t believe you’re here.” She had tears in her eyes again. Theo felt his cock softening. 

“Me also,” he said, and he genuinely meant it. It was good to be home in their bed. 

He reached out for her face, pulling her to him, kissing her deeply. God, if she was bothered by tasting her own juices on his mouth, she did not show it. She kissed back, meeting his lips with equal force. She always was game and a quick study. He would teach her to suck his cock one day. He was hard again just thinking about it. But not just now. Focus on the kiss. On her. All for her. Her lips, Edith lips, his wife’s lips, warm and salty now, like his. He manoeuvred on top of her. Edith liked to be on top, he knew, but he wanted to fuck her properly, like that first time in the garden. She slid under him, spreading her legs apart, resting them on his upper thighs, a soft little vice. He was home. She held his cock in her hand and guided into her. Home. She tilted her hips upward to meet him, angling him deep inside her. She was wet and loose and floating around him and he started to lose control. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, drifting. No, it was too soon. He wanted her there in the moment with him. He shifted his weight up onto his arms and thrust in again, bringing his pubic bone down on top of her clit. 

She gripped his back, hard, her eyes opening wide at his trick. He did it again and she thrust up harder to meet him. She was back with him, breathing fast, thrusting her hips into his, wanting it again.

“There yes! Theo!”

He pulled out and slid his cock across her clit, guiding it with his hand.

She twisted her face away from him, her eyes shut tight. The noises she made, oh God, the noises. He dove back in, thrusting deep inside a few more times. He was nearly there. He pulled out again, used his hand to guide his cock over her slick cunt. 

 “Oh God, Theo, you feel so good. Oh, God.”

She pushed her legs apart farther, her heels digging into the edges of the bed, her hips arched.  She looked desperate. How beautiful she was like this, wanton, her whole body offered up to him. He thrust in again. She grabbed his back, trying to push him more deeply inside her. She flowed around him in salty warmth, like a warm sea. He was close now. He fucked her as long as he could, which really wasn’t very long. He never knew how long these things lasted. A few minutes really, but it seemed like hours sometimes, with your mind a blank and your whole body centred on a few little nerves. And yet it was never long enough. There was never enough time. And sometimes your mind wasn’t quite blank enough. Thoughts could always come in when you had your guard down. A proud and damaged shoulder gleaming in the sun. The sound of ragged breath. The creak of a bed. The feel of a vein popped full of blood, standing up like a scar. 

 “Theo, remember you must - ”

He had not forgotten. He emptied his head of everything but the rhythm of her hips rising to meet his, the slick heat around his cock and the salty smell of her.  

“Oh God, Edith,” he said arching his back, shuddering. She rolled back, bringing her knees up behind him, giving him a final squeeze. He pulled out just in time. Balancing on her knee, he gripped his cock and caught his spunk in his fist. He collapsed forward on to his arms, mindful not to crush her, and wiped his hand on the edge of the sheet. Spent, happy, he huffed out a little laugh. She smiled up at him. Satisfied. Benevolent. Reassured. His Edith. His wife. She understood, somehow, Theo felt she must. Even if they could not say all, they could say some. The guilt was far away somewhere out on that warm salty sea. He closed his eyes. He felt the sun through his lids, the warmth at the very centre of him and Edith, now oozing across his stomach. For the first time in days he was truly sleepy, not just exhausted. They arranged themselves in the bed, Edith with her head on his chest, one leg over his. She pulled the covers over them. He was asleep before he could thank her. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’m running out of ways to thank idlesuperstar. This wouldn’t exist without all her hard work and diligence. 
> 
> Also thanks to her for suggesting the scene from Forster, and for enriching my life as well as my fic by putting Forster on my literary radar. He is a joy. Now my spellchecker knows 'chorically' and 'Michelangelesque'. Bonus.
> 
> Sasha the amazing sexy Russian-artist-backstory sex-bomb belongs to to tea-with-theo - so thanks to her for allowing me to borrow him.


End file.
